I got a Nikon camera

[restingstitchface]

WHO: Crane and Max
WHERE: ???
WHEN: 12/2. 12/8. 12/12.
WHAT: Max goes to sleep and lets a stranger in her head.
WARNINGS: All sorts of horrible triggers, trauma etc. Jefferson.

[Well, the magic had worked. There was no doubt about that.

It hadn't at all been easy to accept that it had worked. The part of his mind that was rooted to human science and understanding - his memory of opening that door, learning what lay beyond - couldn't swallow occult practices. He had studied violent people. Destructive people. People who liked the sound of their own voice. People who whipped out knives to intimidate people when they didn't get their way.

He couldn't discern their names or remember if he'd given them numbers. There were glimpses in his memory of capital letters and 1's and 8's. The thought they had once been given real, human names was dropping though his mind like water through a sieve. He narrows his eyes, accustomed to the dark. He notes the photographs strewn beneath his fingers; those framed and mounted to the wall; the open portfolio; the camera in his hands. There were flashes of patients he had never tortured, or drugged, or manipulated to use as menial labor. Those cases he had imagined would be good for the sake of appearances. Their names he couldn't remember either. But he feels he had found their cases fascinating.

Still, there had been a mask to wear back then. It had been so practical. He repeats the words calmly: back then. Back then had seemed so far away this morning. He leans against the table. He'd had his mask taken from him when he had been arrested and treated with disdain; back when he'd been stripped and had his back cleaned. It had been handed back upon his release. He didn't like other people touching it. But what had happened back then didn't seem important now. For all around him are details he can't tear his eyes from.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move except to, slowly, rest his right hand on the desk. This image of Max's teacher had seemed like it would be fun to exploit. He'd requested to slip inside it upon arrival, to take on his looks and see through his eyes, and the Devil had obliged. So, really, hasn't he just exchanged one mask for another? His left hand settles on his hip. Behind his glasses, he is that same cold, clinical intelligence.

Anyway, it's time to wait for the guest of honor. He gives up pretending to look bothered and crosses his arms. His head tilts forward and he keeps in his dark corner, looking as aloof as a house-cat - and just as pretentious.]

Comments

12/2

[timecapture]

[For all her trauma, Max had dealt relatively well regarding her trauma at the hands of Mark Jefferson. She'd already had the requisite nightmare - and besides, Chloe's death had hurt her far more than anything he'd managed to put her through. But tonight was, of course, different.

Max feel asleep relatively quickly tonight, and found herself just outside of her old classroom. Shit. Hadn't she gone through enough already? But here she was, and she knew that she'd wake up and have this all over.

It didn't make seeing the face of the bastard who'd caused all this any easier.]

[restingstitchface]

[Here she is again.

It's his first time witnessing this exquisite trauma in the place where it's created. But she's acting like tonight is no different from the night these nightmares had occurred in the flesh. Shook by the image of her teacher - of all he represented - and too afraid to press the handle and step inside her old classroom.

He tilts his head back and eyes the door.]

Ah, if it's not one of photography's future stars. Are you here to hand in a picture? Or are you just going to stand there posing?

[timecapture]

[Max glared at Jefferson, her hand simply tightening on the door handle before she squared her shoulders and stepped in. This was just a dream.]

I already handed in my photo. Remember Kate Marsh?

[That's right, you son of a bitch; she remembers what you did.]

I'm not really interested in posing.

[It was just a dream.]

[restingstitchface]

Kate. Right.

[His fingertips gently tap his camera. Look at how much of a shit he gives!

He had gleaned from his research that Max's tutor was a master of his field. A murderer who killed girls without pity or remorse. He would own his classroom without feeling the need to pose about it. He unfolds his arms and walks in the space between the desks. He holds her attention in the center of the classroom; gesturing as he's talking. Then he turns around again and folds his arms.]

Anyway. I had never expected you to be so vain. [His face barely conceals his contempt.] But please don't worry. We have all the time in the world, for now.

[timecapture]

She was stronger than you. And so am I.

[She doesn't feel strong right now, though - more like a scared kid who's found herself trapped, once more, in the nightmare from which she had once escaped (but, she notes with wry amusement, at least there aren't bottles this time). Max refuses to sit down, instead looking Jefferson right in the eye, feeling a cold dread settle in the pit of her stomach and trying not to remember how horrible being photographed by him was.]

We don't. Your time ran out a few weeks ago.

[restingstitchface]

[That doesn't phase him either. He leans against the desk and fixes his glasses.]

What a lovely spirit you have, Max. [He tips his head.] At least... I'd always thought you were special.

[Were special. Were. He isn't smiling. There's nothing to be glad about, here. But her fearlessness is a quality an artist would appreciate.]

But as beautiful as that trait of yours is, I'm afraid that our time hasn't run out at all. In here, you're still as much a dreamer as you ever were.

[timecapture]

[It was so hard to believe that once, she'd admired - even idolized - the man. She'd loved his lectures, his photographs, his cheerful encouragement of his students. Not anymore.]

I don't give a shit what you think.

[Calm down, Max. This was only a dream. The real Mark Jefferson was rotting in jail.]

And what are you?

[restingstitchface]

[He unfolds his arms.

His left hand rests on his hip. The right supports him by leaning on the desk. This is fascinating. His eyes grow even icier as he looks at her with a cold, clinical focus. Like she's being pinned under a glass frame. He slightly cranes to his right.]

I'm that which captures you over and over, Max. [He is fear.] Nobody else will ever appreciate you the way I do. We need to catch up on all the time we've spent... apart.

[timecapture]

[Oh, God. Max stops, as tense as a deer that knows she's been caught in someone's sights, and pales. Giving a hard swallow at absolutely nothing, she tightens her grip on her arm as her shoulders raise themselves up - only slightly, but enough.]

You only caught me once. [She doesn't say his name.] And then, you were the one who'd been caught.

12/8

[timecapture]

[Something was wrong. Max had known that from the very beginning, but she can't quite put her finger on it. One bad dream? Creepy, but expected. Twice in a row? Still not too suspect. Third time's the curse, however, and when Max found herself in the school, being pursued (and caught) by Jefferson over and over and over again, she'd desperately tried to put the pieces together in between gasps.

This night, though? This night was different. Instead of the school, Max found herself in the junkyard, at night, where Rachel had been uncovered and Chloe had been shot. Thankfully, there was no sign of Chloe, but Max knew this couldn't be an ordinary nightmare.

She wished she were badass enough to be able to pull off a "Bring it on", but as things were, she simply hunched her shoulders slightly, took a deep breath, and looked around. Maybe she could hide before Jefferson arrived and the inevitable pursuit began.]

[restingstitchface]

[There was the smell of decay in the air and the wind blew it around.

Crane wrinkled his nose; the scent of rotting flesh, human waste and mothballs mixed with a waft of garlic. The smell didn't bother him, but he could have done without it. And loathsome as the smell was, a part of it cracked his lips. A smile brightened his face as he pointed the torch at different sections of the yard: the derelict bus, the bottles on a bench, the rusty heap of cars. His eyes scanned back and forth over the dark outlines. The wrecked outhouse covered in old belongings and graffiti...

He tilted his head akin to a bird as he stalked past it to the grassy area at the end of the yard. His eyes had acclimatized to darkness long ago. The experience of skulking around under the threat of his great-grandmother's presence. She had provided him with so many lessons. And she had rotted away in a similar fashion, really.

His torch, which had been pointed down and at the ready, came up.]

Stop acting so rattled, Max. You'll have to talk to me eventually.

[timecapture]

[Max stifled a frightened gasp, stepping away from Jefferson. Rewinding wouldn't work, she knew; she'd probably just wake up and have to start this horrible dream all over again. That, and her powers were different, now. She didn't know what she could do - at least, not the full extent of it - and she honestly had no idea how that would affect her dreams.]

And who are you? I've had the same sort of dreams for a week. I can tell this isn't normal.

[restingstitchface]

[The flashlight falls on Max's face. Behind his glasses, there's a curious look in his eyes. Did she think to stand and face him? Did she think to run? He leans forward and clasps his hands behind his body. There's no expression on his face and his eyes are cold and clinical in their study.]

Who am I? That question is one you should ask yourself, Max. This is your head, after all.

[timecapture]

You're not Jefferson.

[Something is wrong, she knows - and her talk with Clara, only yesterday, has increased her suspicion. His body language - something Max had seen so many times in her classes with him - is off. So is his wording, and sometimes, even his tone.

Perhaps it is Crane... but she doesn't know. Not yet.]

I know my head doesn't do this. That tells me something else is happening here.

[restingstitchface]

[Crane isn't looking at her anymore. His eyes are scanning the junkyard, taking note of everything that points to Max's psychological issues. That smell - something in her past is rotten. So he unearths it without her consent. Invades her dreams. Seeks his entertainment and thrills in having his revenge.

He hasn't missed his display of body language, either. Nor his words and manner of speaking. Their last conversation had been a prelude. Her subconscious. Her reams. But still she hides her convictions. Poor, poor Max. He turns his eyes back upon her. His stare is blank and unyielding. Impatient.]

And what would that something be, exactly?

[timecapture]

[Max, for her part, simply falls silent and looks away, visibly tensing as the stench of Rachel Amber's corpse invaded the air.

Rachel! Chloe had wailed, trying desperately for anything to prove that it wasn't true. Rachel, why? Max had held her close, sobbed an apology, but it hadn't helped, and even now, she could still hear Chloe's heartbroken wails. What kind of world does this? Who does this?!]

[restingstitchface]

[Jonathan steps closer. His eyes dart between the bench and rusty cars for a final look, step, before focusing intently on Max's hunched shoulders and - step, step - the visible signs of her distress. He indulges himself in his work by absorbing her fear. Step. Denoting her state of being. Thinking of his own power.

He now stands close. However, he doesn't lean close. He is one with the dream. Part of her fear. And it's thrilling.]

Come on. Show it to me. What are you scared of, child?

12/12

[timecapture]

[Max awoke slowly, groggily shifting as she slowly began to come awake. Without fully realizing it, she attempted to move her arms, only to discover that her wrists and ankles were duct-taped to a chair.

Oh. Oh, no. Not this. Max tries not to panic, looking around her for clues.

None are needed. It's the dark room - and it looks exactly the way she left it, only without David Madsen and the unconscious Mr. Jefferson.The white walls, the lighting, the camera in just the right place - even the same music is playing. And she hates it.

Oh, God, no... please, no.]

[restingstitchface]

[Slow jazz. Crane hears it as he looks around for clues. A woman sings of memories moving in to stay, while he curiously eyes the black and white photographs framed on the wall. A pair of hands, bound at the wrists, hide a tortured face. Female eyes stare at him. She has been captured in eternity. Sought and revered as the embodiment of purity. It makes him consider the trauma Max has endured as he turns to look at the desk on his right.

Papers. School suspension. Construction information.

He slides into the swivel chair at the nearby desk and slides his fingers over the mouse. He's following her path of investigation; creating a cold, deliberate mockery of her position then and the one he occupies now. He wonders what it feels like for her to helplessly watch him slide into her nightmares like this. He's moving in to stay. Yet he doesn't seem to pay Max any attention at all, except to peer over the monitor at her occasionally.

Jazz. It's timeless but not his thing.

The screen emits a dim light as he manouvers the pointer to the photography folder.]

Let's see what's in here, shall we?

[Click.]

[timecapture]

[Max stifles a sob as she realizes what's happening, trying to struggle against the duct tape. But these are her memories; she knows the tape on her right ankle isn't as secure as the rest. If she could just wait for the right opportunity...

Outside, the weather is eerily quiet - and so are the animals, a sign of the storm to come. Storm; that's it. These are her dreams. If she could just lure Crane out there...

But how? Here he is, rooting through her memories. Rachel Amber. Kate Marsh. And then there's the empty binder meant for Victoria, and the full one of Max.

Please, no.]

[restingstitchface]

[Jonathan Crane investigates one folder then the next. His face doesn't move through any range of expression during the minutes his eyes fall on the screen. There is no movement except to straighten his glasses. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a photographer focused on his work.

Literally so, considering the mask he wears. Jefferson's appearance likely meant one or two of his students had been wet with thought. He presses his lips, throughly disgusted by the image. Maybe the poor man's students had tried to get him into compromising positions. Worn clothes he would approve of. Adjusted their behavior to impress him. They really didn't get him at all.

His attention sharply focuses and he works in silence for a while.

Rachel Amber; Kate Marsh; Victoria - nothing; Max Caulfield. Black and white. Frightened and vulnerable. Doeful. Pure - like all girls should be.

He lifts his eyes to look at her. He even wags his finger!]

Really, Max. You really need to stop meeting the wrong kind of people.

[timecapture]

[Max slowly wiggles her right leg, loosening the duct tape around the ankle. She has to keep him distracted, keep him talking. And she has to not make him any angrier than he already is right now.]

Fuck you.

[Okay, so she's not exactly thinking clearly.]

He was my teacher. I trusted him.

[restingstitchface]

Oh.

[Crane returns his eyes to the screen.

There was a simple lesson in this. Don't trust anyone.]

Why? I presume you trusted him not to abuse his position of power?

[timecapture]

Of course I did! Nobody even suspected him. He was the last person anyone ever thought would do this.

[Come on, just a little more... There. Her leg's free, but Max keeps it close to the chair leg.]

[restingstitchface]

There were signs, Max. These are young women. I'd wager they were his students, like you. [Click.] If you were careless enough to miss the signs, it's your own simpleminded fault.

[Click.]

Guilt is never to be doubted, you know. Nor human stupidity.

[Click.

There is silence. It seems Crane won't continue to speak. His eyes lift to Max; a cold, clinical gaze is leveled at her vulnerable position strapped to the chair. Then they go to the monitor, then back to her, where they hold for a while before returning to one of Jefferson's photographs. It's Max, bound and laid, captured from a downward angle. He takes on a mildly curious tone and glances back.]

How close did he feel to you?

[He gives a boyish smile knowing it's a terrible question. Jefferson would have been standing close to take his photographs... but he would have felt a spiritual need to be close. Max had come under his gaze because of it. He isn't going to drop his gaze, either. She is here to be studied.]